Site Presented By
Thursday, Nov 26, 2009
Glenn Close seemed nice enough. But the hundreds who gathered to see the prospective presidential candidate couldn't help wondering what, exactly, was she doing there?
Apr 12, 2004 | The audience in the gym sat and stared. Glenn Close. That was her, all right. This was a junior high gym in Lincoln, N.H., about two hours north of Manchester, where the floor was very clean and a woman looking precisely like Glenn Close was standing on it, wearing neat black boots and faded black jeans, a simple black turtleneck and a camel's hair blazer over it. This woman -- she really looked almost exactly like Glenn Close.
There were about 200 people in the gym, sitting on the retractable risers, trying to warm themselves. The gym was cold, and outside, in the New Hampshire January, where all of these people had just been waiting for upwards of an hour, it was colder. It was difficult in New Hampshire that week to become warm, for the temperature had dropped to ten below zero, the wind far beneath that lofty number, and everyone was equally alarmed and fascinated by just how cold it was. It was the kind of cold that provoked laughter. Laughter that would come from thinking Goddamn, it's cold! How can it be this cold? But was the cold really funny? No one really thought so. The cold was unnecessary, because, to be honest, things were hard enough.
The attendees had come to see Rob Jones speak. And luckily for Rob Jones, so many had come to see him that he had filled the cafeteria, where he was now speaking, and forcing hundreds of overflowers to sit in the adjacent gym, where they now sat, waiting for Rob Jones to finish with the first audience and move onto theirs. And while they waited they stared at Glenn Close.
Glenn Close looked good. She looked about 43, though she was probably more like 50. She was petite. Pretty. Serious. Warmseeming. She was standing in her neat outfit next to Margaret Jones, Rob's wife, who was addressing the audience, giving what seemed like a familiar presentation, frequently twirling strands of her long black hair around her right forefinger. Margaret knew her material, it was clear, and was making jokes and answering questions with candor while Glenn Close stood behind her and a bit to her right, with her hands clasped before her. Glenn Close was watching Margaret Jones dutifully, much as a candidate's wife is taught to do, rarely looking at the audience.
Glenn Close did not speak, and she was referenced only once, when, at the beginning of her welcome, Margaret Jones introduced first her handsome (he was not; he looked like the Sling-Blade Billy Bob) son Jefferson, who had taken a week off of school at Skidmore to campaign for his dad, and also a family friend traveling with them, Glenn Close. With that, Glenn Close had nodded ever so slightly, closing her eyes slowly, smiling with her mouth closed -- the model of unassuming gravitas. After that, the audience, in flannel and workboots and hats with flaps, spent a good deal of time staring at Glenn Close. Margaret spoke, stalling until her husband Rob arrived, and though the audience was paying attention to Margaret's words, they were also wondering how they were supposed to feel about Glenn Close being there.
Glenn Close seemed nice enough, but she seemed to have absolutely nothing to do with what was happening in the building, the town or state. She was there in a support position, lending her presence, but it was such a strange combination, Glenn Close and the presidential primary season in New Hampshire. It was akin, the audience thought, to seeing Glenn Close standing behind one's local bank teller, offering her support. Or Glenn Close standing behind your nephew's tee-ball team, offering her support. Glenn Close, a bit behind and off to the side, offering support to the man stacking the fruit at the grocery store.
